


Easy Hearts

by downjune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Casual Sex, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Porn with Feelings, post-season, then feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 10:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14999213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/pseuds/downjune
Summary: This is probably going to happen. Kris is probably going to make it happen, because if Matt’s come here to be a mess, who is Kris to get in the way? He’s never met a mess he couldn’t dirty up a little more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally prompt mashup tumblr fic for these prompts: Second Love & Didn't Mean to Turn You On. Needless to say, it spiraled. So have all of my end-of-season-feelings! This fic was largely inspired by Matt Murray's instagram and the post-season melancholy he has shared on it. <3
> 
> Title and lyric from my favorite Prince of Disaster, Ryan Adams.
> 
> Content warning for eventual discussion of mourning and grief over the death of a family member.

Can I be yours tonight?  
I’ve an easy heart

 

Tanger doesn’t hear Matt say it after they lose to the Caps in six, but he sees it around later. 

_[Murray on how he feels: “Empty.”](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/174448675063) _

As if Kris didn’t already feel like garbage about the whimper their season ended on. He shouldn’t feel personally responsible for Matt’s well-being but try telling that to his gut or his heart or whatever. Defense protects the goalie, and he’s the number one, so this is on him. 

He’s back home in Montreal, and Matt’s on some vacation with Rusty. Every day on Instagram he sees new pics of Matt on a boat, the wind in his hair and his dogs drooling into their life-jackets.

He’s obviously fine, and Kris should not still be worried, but Flower is playing the best hockey of his life out in Vegas, and Kris has nothing to do but train until September, so fuck it. Better to be stalking Matt’s Instagram than drinking too much wine and missing the best friend he’s ever had–the only dude he’s ever been able to say he loved. 

Well, he could say it to himself and to a camera, apparently. Never to Flower when it counted.

So he’s avoiding that whole mess and privately dreading how weird it’ll be once Flower comes home in a few weeks, maybe with a Cup. He’d rather dick around on Instagram, frankly.

The pic that does it is one somebody took while Matt was sleeping, the younger Newf under his arm.  
Kris has never really looked at Matt’s arms before. He’s much leaner than Flower, but Flower’s arms were always fucking spectacular. There’s something to the curve of muscle and the pale skin of Matt’s shoulder, though. [Kris spends a while looking.](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/175080302542/ehghtyseven-via-beckhamandleothenewfs-instagram)

It’s the lines dug between Matt’s brows that have him searching for his number and starting a text. 

Who took the photo? Are he and Rusty sleeping together? The pic was posted to the dogs’ Instagram, so either Matt’s vacation buddy has access to the phone or the account, or Matt posted the picture himself after it was taken. Kris gives his trainer and his tailor permission to post videos and pics, and he hopes Matt is conscientious about this stuff too. He doesn’t type out any of that, because he’s pretending not to be a lonely 30-something flailing without hockey to occupy him. But he wonders at Matt’s willingness to share his sleeping face and naked shoulder with the whole internet, and writes, _How’re you holding up?_ Then, before he can consider it carefully, _Let me know if you wanna hang out this summer._

He throws on his running clothes, because if it’s this fucking hot in May, he may as well sweat in it, and hits the road rather than wait for a reply. Flower doesn’t text anymore, so he’s not going down that path with Matt.

After thirty minutes of cardio, he returns to a reply: _I’m all right. If you’re serious, I can be there Friday. If that’s cool._

He glances around at his messy house. That’s the day after tomorrow, and his cleaning lady is on vacation until Monday, which means he will have to pick this shit up himself. _It’s cool_ , he writes back, and just keeps himself from asking if Matt’s okay again. 

The reply comes quickly. _Awesome. I appreciate it. I can’t really be here right now._

Kris hesitates, then writes back, _So be here instead._

 _Empty_ , he thinks. Going home after months away to find out how a parent’s absence really feels, with no Cup, no celebration to patch over what’s missing. Kris would want out too. 

_Text me your flight info_ , he writes, _and I’ll pick you up_.

_I’m gonna drive, actually._

Kris snorts. Kids. _Be careful. Ontario is boring as shit to drive through._

_Says you. See you Friday._

Kris sends back a thumbs-up and closes the app–which leaves him staring at that Instagram pic of Matt’s sleeping face. The person he would talk to about Matt’s state of mind just won Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Final, and he doesn’t think Matt would appreciate Kris talking to Sid about it. So all he can do is examine Matt’s vulnerable face and wonder if he’s done the right thing.

*

Kris spends the next two days keeping an eye on Instagram and wondering if he should ask about Matt’s dogs. His house is in no way proofed for beasts of that size, shedding, and slobber level. He’s witnessed the damage they can do to a clean shirt, and he should’ve asked if he needs to cover all his furniture in drop clothes.

But in the pictures Matt posts, he doesn’t see evidence of Beckham or Leo hulking in the back seat. The pics are all filtered and artsy selfies with Lake Superior in the background, stark white birches, dramatic cliffs, and blue, blue water. Sometimes Matt has his sunglasses pushed back in his hair, and his eyes are the same color as the lake—deep blue or slate depending on the weather. Sometimes his glasses cover half his face and reflect the sky. 

He stops in Sault Ste. Marie, and Kris squints at the pic Matt posts—not a selfie, but one taken with who he first assumes is a fan. But the way the kid grips Matt’s waist… Kris recognizes his knuckles in a pic posted the following morning. Matt’s asleep in bed and shirtless, face half-hidden by his arm where it drapes across his pillow. That kid’s hand is on his bare stomach, and he’s obviously the one taking the picture, which it looks like Matt regrammed to his own account. The kid’s username is still in the capture. 

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Kris grumbles, not sure who he’s really talking to. 

Matt is their You Can Play rep, and he’s never made a secret of his sexuality, but he’s also never performed it quite so publicly. There’re shirtless pics with his dogs and workout pics and summer pics, and far be it from Kris to say a guy can’t be proud or open about his body, but this… He feels like a captive audience to something he shouldn’t be allowed to see. And worse, he’s a little turned on. Has Matt been fucking his way through the province since the end of the season?

Is that what he intends to do when he gets to Montreal? Is Kris’s house a convenient place to sleep, or is Kris on the list?

He locks his phone but brings it with him down to his weight room to train for a bit. After some internal debate, he posts a couple videos of his squats, and realizes it is possible to be both proud and ashamed of himself at the same time. 

*

Matt arrives late Friday afternoon with an overnight bag, the clothes on his back, and no dogs.

“They’re with my mom,” he explains when Kris glances into the dog-hair-covered backseat. The windows are streaked in wet nose prints and old drool. “She misses them a lot during the season, so…” 

“Cool,” Kris answers, relieved.

Matt cracks a smile. “I wasn’t gonna show up with them without asking.”

They’re standing in Kris’s foyer still, so he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up at all.”

Matt Murray in his house—entirely himself and utterly out of place—feels dreamlike. Kris must have gone to sleep still thinking about those pictures. Why else would Matt Murray ever be here without the rest of the guys? They don’t hang out just the two of them. 

Only, Kris can smell him—day-old cologne and sweat—and Matt’s brief flash of surprise and hurt is more vivid than Kris could imagine.

“You invited me,” he says.

“I know. What I mean is, I didn’t expect you to say yes.”

Matt’s gaze shifts over Kris’s shoulder. “Then you shouldn’t have offered. I’m not turning anybody down this summer.”

“I’m getting that, yeah. Come on, I wouldn’t ask you here if I didn’t mean it,” he says when Matt starts to turn back for the door. “You’ve gotta be exhausted after that drive. The traffic was probably shit. Do you want a drink?”

“God, yes,” Matt answers. His shoulders slump as Kris takes his bag and nudges him ahead down the hall and into the house. 

*

Kris doesn’t have a lake in his backyard like Sid, or a Lake Superior in his town like Matt. He doesn’t live on the river like Flower. Living by water isn’t an impulse he’s ever had, so he doesn’t have much of a view off his deck. But he pays a landscaper to keep the yard nice around his pool, and Matt sits out there with a beer and stares like there really is a view. 

Or maybe he’s staring at nothing, his head somewhere else entirely.

Kris sits with him for a while, but they don’t talk. When Kris goes inside for takeout menus, Matt doesn’t even blink or seem to breathe. 

He orders Chinese for them, and when he returns to his deck, Matt finally turns to look at him. 

“We can drive around the city tomorrow, if you want,” Kris offers.

“I’d rather walk,” Matt says. 

“Of course, you would.”

The corner of Matt’s mouth twitches, and Kris blurts, “I liked your pictures from your road trip.” And he means the ones Matt took of the scenery, but when Matt looks hard at him, he wonders if he also means the one of Matt in bed with that Sault kid. 

“I’ve got more on my phone,” he says, and Kris scoots his chair closer. Matt slides his phone from his pocket and begins to swipe through them, slow enough for Kris to get a good look, but not lingering long. 

“Parts of Ontario suck to get through,” he says quietly, picking up their text conversation from two days before. “But the north shore of Lake Superior is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. You should really go sometime.”

Kris makes a quiet noise, but it freezes in his throat when Matt flips through a few pics of the Sault kid and some of himself. “Friend of yours?” he manages.

“I knew him in Junior,” Matt answers. 

“He likes taking pictures of you. Or you like him taking pictures of you.” Kris’s face heats as he says it, but Matt doesn’t seem even a little embarrassed. 

“I like it, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Like you don’t?” Matt gives him a sly look, quick and appraising. “I saw the videos you posted today.” He pauses, seeming to weigh what’s about to come out of his mouth. “They were hot. You wanted people to see them.”

Kris wanted Matt to see them. “I like to look good,” he says with a falsely humble shrug and a smirk. “But it’s like you want people to know this private part of you. I don’t get that.”

Matt looks down at the picture of himself. He’s on the bed gazing up at the camera with fucking bedroom eyes and thank god he didn’t post this one. “I like to look at them,” he answers. “And it’s nice to feel known.”

“You have a whole team that knows you.”

Matt lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Doesn’t always feel that way.”

Kris doesn’t know what to say to that. He could say that the guys on the team are the only ones who will ever really know him, but they keep fucking leaving. He could say that Matt has engraved his place on the team forever after those two crazy Cup runs, and there isn’t a man who wouldn’t take an Ovi slapshot for him. But he doesn’t say either of those things, because who the fuck is he to know what’s in Matt’s heart after a year like this one?

“It was good to see you on the boat with Rusty,” he offers finally. “You looked good.”

Matt’s face softens a little. “He’s a good kid.”

 _Who is older than you, old man,_ Kris finishes silently, smiling to himself. Matt flips back through his phone to those pictures, some of which Kris has already seen. There are more of him in bed.

“Straight as an arrow, though,” Matt tells him. “At least when it comes to sex. I swear he’s in love with half the guys he meets; just not down to fuck.”

Kris shakes his head and bites back a laugh of surprise. “Good to know, I guess.”

“Yeah, in case you ever thought about hitting that.” Matt looks at him with a dare in his eyes. A dare and something else, something angrier underneath that Kris is sure has nothing to do with Bryan Rust. 

Kris takes the dare and doesn’t blink. 

Matt’s mouth twitches. “Me, though.” He shrugs one shoulder, and Kris remembers the exact pattern of freckles across his skin from the pictures. 

This is probably going to happen. Kris is probably going to make it happen, because if Matt’s come here to be a mess, who is Kris to get in the way? He’s never met a mess he couldn’t dirty up a little more.

Their chairs aren’t quite close enough, so Kris leans over the arm of his and hooks Matt’s knee. He tugs, and the chair skids a few inches across his deck, far enough that when Matt leans into it too, they can reach. Matt grabs him by the back of the head and twists his fingers into his hair. 

“And you,” Matt says, eyes on his mouth.

Kris pushes to his feet and draws Matt up with him, pulling him in with a hand on his side. This is maybe the easiest hookup he’s ever managed. And absolutely the worst idea he’s had—but at least it’s not just his. “Yeah, me.”

Matt’s smile is strange, and a moment later, he’s pushing Kris into his house like he knows exactly where he’s going. Kris manages to duck in and kiss him so they’re not just staring at each other on the way up to the bedroom, and Matt closes his eyes tight. Kris takes over navigation and pushes him backwards up the stairs.

“You ever fuck a guy before?” Matt asks, and later, Kris is going to wonder just how the fuck he and Matt Murray got here from where they’d been two weeks before. But right now, he shakes his head, because, no. Kris has only wanted one other guy, and they never did more than make out a few times, drunk as skunks. Talk about a mess—a Tanger Special.

Matt grabs him into the guest room and stops at his overnight bag on the way to the bed. From a front pocket he pulls out a half-empty bottle of lube and a condom. Then he backs up onto the mattress all the way to the head of the bed and pulls Kris after him.

“It’s not that different from a girl,” Matt tells him, and Kris feels the evening slipping out of his control. “Just go slow at first. You’re not gonna hurt me.” Sitting back against the upholstered headboard, Matt tugs his black sweats down his hips, drips lube onto his fingers, and reaches down behind his balls. His hips lift, and he grunts softly, and Kris goes hot all over. He watches Matt greedily, and Matt watches him right back. He puts on a bit of a show, arching his neck and spreading his legs so that Kris has to strip his sweats the rest of the way off if he’s going to see everything. After tossing them aside, he touches the inside of Matt’s thighs, brushing his fingers down to the dark blond hair between his legs. His dick is long and slim like the rest of him, and Kris gets an instinctive jolt at how strange it is to see Matt’s body in this context.

When Matt slips his fingers free and jerks his chin up in invitation, though, Kris knees in closer, wedges his thighs beneath Matt’s, and lifts him against the headboard.

“Fuck, yeah,” Matt grunts. He fumbles Kris’s fly open and shoves his hand inside, his grip almost too firm as he pulls Kris’s dick out. He rips the condom open with his teeth and rolls it on with as much confidence as he applies to every other situation. He wants Kris to know he knows what he’s doing. And when Matt shifts against the headboard and lifts his knees a little higher, Kris gets the message. 

He presses Matt’s thighs open wide, aims carefully, and rocks inside with a gentle rhythm. The pressure and heat draw a groan out of him, and Matt tosses his head back, baring his throat. Releasing Matt’s legs, Kris braces one arm against the headboard and holds Matt around the waist with the other, then ducks in close. He licks and bites at Matt’s neck, and Matt pulls his hair and moans, and Kris can see how quickly this is going to be over. Too much heat and emotion, no patience and no finesse. Matt will take a couple photos after, or worse, ask Kris to, and move on. Find Dumo in Maine, maybe, and see if his girlfriend wouldn’t mind if they messed around for a night. 

Well, not if Kris has anything to say about it. Leaning back, he gets a hand in Matt’s hair and pins his head to the wall so he can’t look away. Matt’s mouth twitches again, as if all of this is just a little funny to him. But he arches his spine and rocks his hips in time with Kris’s thrusts into him, and it is fucking _art_ what they are doing. Artistic fucking. Whatever. 

Kris keeps him there until that smirk fades from his face, and his mouth drops open. His hands clutch restlessly at Kris’s shoulders, and his eyes go fuzzy, a flush rising up his neck.

“You can touch yourself,” Kris says.

“Generous,” he answers, but he doesn’t reach down. Instead he closes his eyes and tips his head way back. And it’s like he’s daring Kris to finish him off. He relaxes against the wall like he could do this all day. Kris would like to think his conditioning is some of the best in the league, but even if his quads could keep this up, he’s still got eyes, and he’s still _inside_ Matt. 

The sharp angles of his nose and jaw, softened just enough by his beard, are beautiful in a way they couldn’t have been when he first came up from Wilkes. Kris knows his face now. Those lines are back between his brows, and they are responsible for all of this. 

He lets go of Matt’s hair and smooths his thumb over them until they disappear, and Matt blinks his eyes open. He’s not smiling now, and he still doesn’t move his hands from where they rest against Kris’s arms. 

All right, fine. If Matt is still waiting to be impressed, Kris can deliver. And to do that, he wants more skin. Leaving Matt to support himself against the wall, Kris strips out of his t-shirt and tosses it. Then, when Matt just stares at him, Kris reaches for his and does the same. Matt’s spine bows as Kris tugs the shirt up and off. And yeah, at twenty-four, he’s growing into himself. 

With Matt finally naked, Kris grips him around his waist again and reaches down between them. His dick is half hard, but when Kris takes hold of him, he feels Matt’s whole body jolt. This time, it’s Kris who dares him to blink first.

Matt’s breath comes quicker, and he makes a short noise every time Kris slides his grip down to the root, but he hangs on. Kris squeezes every time he does it, and Matt’s grip tightens until it hurts.

When he comes, it’s not something Kris ever could have dreamed up. Nothing in the pictures Matt posted hinted at this, however personal they were. 

His brow crumples in what looks like pain, and he ducks his head against Kris’s neck with a moan. He holds on tight and after a moment of perfect stillness lets out a moan so sharp it’s almost a shout. He jerks hard in the circle of Kris’s arms and bites his shoulder and shoots all over his stomach. 

With a groan, Kris hauls him away from the wall so he sits squarely in his lap, and like this, Matt is so much taller, Kris presses his forehead against his chest. His arms fit the whole way around Matt’s waist, and he drives up into him twice more before he follows over the edge. 

Kris has never been loud during sex, so he breathes through it and breathes through the afterglow, too, emotion thick in his throat. The rush of it always nearly chokes him, fierce and hot in his chest. He shuts his eyes when Matt smooths his hand down his spine.

“Fuck, I needed that,” Kris mumbles.

He rubs the tip of his nose over Matt’s nipple until he huffs a sound and pushes his face away. But he keeps a hand on Kris’s cheek and bends down to kiss him. He doesn’t say, _me too_. He doesn’t say anything, and Kris would bet it’s because Matt doesn’t have a fucking clue what he needs. 

Kris, though. He needed the weight of another guy in his arms. He needed Matt’s stork-body folded around him. Matt’s melancholy feels like…like a cool, rainy day after weeks squinting in the sun. 

After a few kisses, Matt draws back just enough to look at him, and Kris is abruptly certain all that stuff inside him is as obvious as his nose or the color of his eyes. The space between them is too small, too intimate. Matt’s belly presses lightly against Kris’s every time he draws a breath. Like hell is Kris moving first, though. 

The silence of the bedroom grows heavier. With a hand still on Kris’s face, Matt rubs his thumb over a fresh scar on his cheek, and in that moment, he can’t remember whether it was a puck, a stick, or the edge of his visor that made the mark. Matt opens his mouth, maybe to speak—

And the doorbell rings. 

Kris blinks stupidly and can’t think who the fuck would be at his house right now.

“Is that dinner?” Matt asks. 

Giving himself a good shake, Kris forces a laugh. “Yeah, fuck, I forgot.”

With a hiss, Matt climbs off him and lurches, stiff-limbed, off the bed. “I’ll get it,” he says. “You’ve gotta take care of that.” He gestures at the condom and Kris’s soft dick as he steps into his sweats. Naturally, he doesn’t bother with a shirt. 

Kris is still wearing his jeans, wallet in his back pocket—which probably explains the numbness in his right leg—so he presses up on his knees and grabs it. “Here.” He tosses it at Matt, who snags it out of the air with typical precision. Not even getting plowed against a wall can fuck with his tracking, apparently. 

Once he’s gone, Kris groans and levers off the bed to clean up.

*

There’s cum stuck just below Matt’s bellybutton. Kris has been staring at it off an on throughout dinner and hoping the delivery guy kept his eyes to himself. The food is from Kris’s favorite Chinese place, and they absolutely know who he is, so the chance that they wouldn’t recognize Matt is next to zero. He reassures himself that a) the delivery guy probably wasn’t looking at Matt’s bellybutton anyway and b) even if he was, delivery guys are tied with hotel housekeepers for first on the list of people who’ve Seen Some Shit, so. Probably not a big deal.

If a pic shows up on the internet, Kris will know who to raise hell with. Though that would mean never ordering their food again, which would be sad.

And Matt probably wouldn’t even care anyway. He’d probably regram it. Kris isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the food arriving interrupted any opportunity for posting ambiguous after-sex photos. 

No, he’s relieved. Definitely relieved. Definitely.

*

Through dinner and after, Matt returns to his silence, and Kris can’t bring himself to fill it with questions. He suspects the purpose of all Matt’s Instagramming, aside from sketchy exhibitionism, is to stand in for answers to the _“So, what have you been up to?”_ questions. Kris wants to know if _“Empty”_ is still how he’s feeling, but he probably wouldn’t like the reply. 

When Matt retreats to the guest room early, and Kris calls it a night, too. He leaves his door open, but if he’s up in the middle of the night, Matt keeps to himself.

The next day they take that walk, as promised. They do the botanical garden in the morning, and Matt plays the tourist, just like Kris hoped, taking pictures of every tree and flower he likes, asking Kris to take his picture with 300-year-old bonsais, and when they have a view of it, the Olympic park. Matt even knows the locals’ dislike of the place and with direction from Kris positions himself so when Kris takes his picture, it looks like he’s stubbing the tower out in the bowl like a giant cigarette in an ashtray. 

Matt doesn’t offer to take Kris’s picture once.

They take the train to the Jean-Talon farmer’s market for lunch and get recognized a lot, as Kris knew they would. He’s lived here his whole life, so the thrill of seeing him around has never really been a thing, but with Matt in tow, more people ask for pictures and autographs, which means Kris is in those by default. Matt eats it up, game for whatever anyone asks. He tells all the kids to tag him in the photos if they post them, which of course makes everybody’s day. 

Over crepes at a picnic table, Matt says quietly, “Was that okay?”

Kris takes another bite of bananas and cream and chocolate and can’t think of anything _more_ okay. “Was what okay?”

“Telling them they can post the pics.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “They probably would anyway.”

“Everybody will know I’m here with you, though,” he says.

“Everybody knew you were with Rusty.”

“Yeah, but that’s—” He cuts himself off, though Kris can guess the end of that sentence. _That’s different._ And it is. He just wants to hear Matt’s reason.

“Why is it different?”

Matt twitches a shrug. “It just is.”

Which is such a copout, it’s almost an answer in itself.

“All right,” Kris answers, oddly satisfied.

Matt’s eyes narrow for a moment, but he doesn’t offer anything else. 

After lunch, they hike up Mont Royal, and after a few more pictures, Matt leans against the overlook rail and soaks up the view of the city. “It’s awesome to be here when the weather’s nice,” he says. “When there’s time to hang out. You know, we travel all over, but it never feels like we actually see anything.”

“Yeah,” Kris agrees. “It’s nice to do this with someone who appreciates it.”

Matt ducks his head a little and smiles to himself, and Kris’s stomach does a stupid swoop in answer.

“Hey, you wanna sit for a minute?” Matt says. “My feet are tired.”

“You’re the one who wanted to walk everywhere, not me.” But there’s no bite in his voice as they head back down. They find a spot in the grass far enough from the center of the greenspace that the perpetual summer drum circle isn’t too obnoxious, and Matt promptly passes out with his hat over his face. Kris messes around on his phone for a bit. If he takes a picture of Matt while he’s napping, nobody needs to know because he’s not posting that shit to Instagram. 

*

They watch Game 3 of the Final that night on Kris’s couch after a dinner of stuffed shells from his favorite place in La Petite Italie, and Matt has no trouble staying awake for it. He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen for a second. It’s obvious he’s watching Flower, drinking in the sight of him, as if the tiny TV-version of him can be enough. 

“Hang around for a while, and he’ll be back here.”

Which is, hands-down, one of the stupidest things Kris has ever said. And Matt shakes his head right away—an altogether appropriate response.

“No. I don’t want to see him.”

That is not the answer Kris expects, at all.

“It’s too hard.” Matt shoots him a quick look. “You know?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I know.”

Matt shrugs awkwardly and keeps his eyes on the TV as the second period winds down. “If he comes back with the Cup, I want to think I’ll just be happy for him, and it won’t be weird, and I won’t be jealous. If he doesn’t, I want to think I won’t be, like, relieved or glad, or whatever. Because that would be shitty. And I want to be better than that.”

“It will be weird either way,” Kris agrees. He watches Matt carefully and sees that flush creeping up his neck again. 

“He’s been so fucking amazing to watch,” Matt says quietly. “And I wasn’t. At all.”

“We didn’t have it this year. I sure as hell didn’t.” Kris tries to be casual about it.

Matt doesn’t jump to disagree with his assessment of himself. “Sid had it. Guentz had it. Dumo.”

Kris scowls down at his hands, remembering how Brian had stepped up for him any time Kris lost his focus, ready to jump in front of a mic to defend him, too. He doesn’t feel very casual about the end of the season, after all, so he changes the subject. 

“I’m not sure they have it, either,” he says, tilting his chin at the screen. They may have won the first one, but two periods into Game 3, the writing is on the wall. Even if the score is close, Vegas is outmatched. Flower is struggling, and if he isn’t brilliant, the rest of the team doesn’t have a prayer. It hurts to watch—Kris wants him to always be fucking magnificent. 

“You know, it’s not a competition for you and him anymore,” he says.

Matt shakes his head. “No, it’s always going to be a competition.” He looks over at Kris finally. “And I’m never gonna win it.”

Kris snorts. “You won it two years in a row. And I don’t think Flower thinks about it that way now. He’s happy where he is.” That’s what hurts worst of all.

The lines between Matt’s brows are back with a vengeance as he glares at the intermission report. “That’s exactly my point.”

*

He doesn’t text Flower after the Game 3 the loss. He hasn’t texted him in well over a week. 

Lying in bed that night, Kris searches himself on Instagram and finds a couple pics taken today with him and Matt. The kids in the photos are small, so Matt reaches over them to rest his arm on Kris’s shoulder. Kris has his hand low on Matt’s back, and he doesn’t recall doing that in the moment, but now he remembers the damp heat of his skin through his t-shirt. The hot weather had finally broken, but after the climb, they were both sweating. 

He turns the light off and guiltily goes to the photo he took of Matt asleep in the park at the bottom of Mont Royal. It was dumb to take this picture, with most of Matt’s face hidden. Still, with arms folded behind his head, the white skin of his underarms is bright in the sunshine. The outline of slim muscle in his torso is visible through his t-shirt. 

Kris locks his phone. He’s being stupid about this. Somebody is likely to get hurt, and that somebody is likely him.

Though just before he drifts off, Matt slips into his room and climbs under the blankets—and it’s nice to not be the only stupid one in a situation. 

“Want me to go down on you?” Matt asks, already crawling over him and scooting down to hook his fingers in the waist of Kris’s underwear.

“Fuck yes,” Kris says and lifts his hips to help Matt peel them down. 

Matt takes him from zero to sixty in no time at all, and the way he does it sends a jolt of jealousy to Kris’s stomach. The way he moves his tongue, the amount of suction, and the fantastic stuff he’s doing with his fingers all speak to a wealth of experience Kris just doesn’t have and isn’t likely to gain outside this right here. 

Matt presses Kris’s balls flush against his body and rubs down to the very root of his dick, setting off a low ache in his gut. He keeps it up when he sucks Kris down, and if Kris doesn’t distract himself, he’s going to come like he’s 16, not 31. 

So while Matt Murray blows him like a champ, Kris wonders about his ugly side. Every pro hockey player has one—a grasping, starving, covetous, vicious side. A side that’s convinced hockey is a zero-sum game, and everyone else’s talent takes away their ice time. Their chance at victory, glory, and success. For years at the start of his career, Kris would have hated Dumo stepping up for him. He would have hated the press going to him to ask about Kris’s failures.

And Kris isn’t any less proud, but the frustration he feels at Dumo’s success comes with affection, now, and gratitude. Kris sure as fuck doesn’t relish getting grilled by the beats. It’s good to have a partner. Good to have backup. And when he and Dumo are on, they make each other _better._

He’s not sure Flower ever felt that, which is really fucking sad. He’s quite certain that if Matt ever thought he had it with Marc, he has since seen his mistake. Goalies have a special kind of viciousness, masked by a cool temperament or a bright smile. Kris is unfortunately positioned to admit it’s both magnetic and scary as shit.

“Hey, do you have any thoughts on fingering?” 

Kris sucks in a sharp breath and looks down to see Matt propped up on his elbows, that half-empty bottle of lube having materialized from somewhere to sit innocently on Kris’s thigh.

“Because I’m awesome at it, and you don’t seem too into this.” He tips his chin at Kris’s less-than-stellar hard-on. 

_No, I’m into it—I was just thinking about how crazy you are and trying not to come._

“Go for it,” he says in a rush. “But you’re really good at sucking dick, too, so don’t stop.”

Matt grins, bright and wide, and—to Kris’s eyes—uncomplicated. He snatches the bottle of lube and slicks up his fingers, leaning to one side so he can press them to Kris’s hole. He hesitates, giving Kris just enough time to linger in this moment before he’s had a guy’s fingers up his ass. And in that time, he experiences a moment of clarity—Matt likes knowing more than Kris does about this stuff. He is thrilled to be Kris’s gay guide or tutor or whatever. 

He slips his fingers inside, purposeful and clever, and fuck, Kris takes to it like a fish to fucking water. Or he takes to Matty, anyway. Matt. Shit. Whatever he’d thought about crazy goalies and their selfishness, the way Matt brings him off—fingers and mouth and a spark in his eyes—Kris can only think that this is the most generous thing he’s ever felt. 

When Matty has rung every last drop from him, inside and out, and Kris has recovered enough to wiggle his fingers and toes again, he rolls Matt under him and jerks him off in a loose, clumsy grip. He won’t attempt any of the more advanced stuff until he’s sure he can be fantastic at it. But nosing under Matt’s jaw through his beard, kissing his throat and collarbones, touching him until he comes apart in his bed, Kris is confident in his potential.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a little visual inspo, [here's our guy, looking super Canadian.](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/post/175083663373/march-16-2018) :))))

It rains for the next two days straight, and each day he expects Matt to tell him he’s headed back home or moving on to visit his Wilkes buddies in the States, or something else altogether. But he uses Kris’s weight room and his treadmill, his laundry when he runs out of underwear, watches a bunch of his movies, falls asleep on his couch, and doesn’t say a word about when he’s leaving.

Kris wonders more than once if Matt’s mom knows his plan. But that’s assuming Matt has a plan, and Kris is increasingly certain he does not.

They watch Vegas get blown out of the water in Game 4, and Kris gives his first-ever blow job in the third period when neither of them can stand to see Flower so upset a second longer. He lays Matt out on his couch and tries to do all the things Matt did to him. He’s probably not quite as fantastic at it, but Matt pulls his hair and closes his thighs against Kris’s ears and makes that wonderful, awful grimace when he comes, so Kris feels pretty good about it even though he doesn’t manage to swallow more than the first little bit.

Matt pulls him up and jerks him off after, Kris straddling his stomach and trying not to get spunk on the couch upholstery. 

Before he can reach for tissues or a t-shirt or anything to clean up with, Matt sits up and says, “Let’s go swimming.”

Kris frowns. “Now?”

“The rain stopped.”

“It’s dark and cold.”

“So you’re saying it’s perfect.” Matt gives him his best after-sex smile and slips out from under him. They still haven’t managed to get all their clothes off _before_ the sex, so Matt tugs off the shirt Kris had shoved up to his armpits and steps out of the sweats and underwear still stuck around his ankle. Without looking to see if Kris follows him, he disappears out onto the deck, bare-ass naked.

Grumbling, Kris finishes stripping, too, and follows. He hates feeling like an old man, but he should probably just embrace it at this point. No truer test than night-swimming.

Except when he finds Matt standing by the pool, silhouetted in the patio light, Kris sweeps him up bridal-style and jumps into the deep end. Matt wraps both arms around his neck and goes under laughing. 

The water closes over their heads, a solid ten degrees warmer than the air, and when they surface, sputtering, it feels like Kris jumped into a bath. “Race you,” Matt says, immediately kicking off the end and swimming for the other side. 

Kris grins and gives him the head start. He’s going to need it with those puny shoulders.

When it becomes abundantly obvious that Matt cannot hope to win this contest, he resorts to cheating, grabbing both Kris’s feet and twisting him around in the water. Fighting back, Kris rolls and wraps his legs around Matt. They sink to the bottom of the pool, but Matt digs his fingers into Kris’s ribs, and rather than choking on his laughter, Kris lets go and pushes to the surface. He coughs to clear the water from his throat, and when Matt comes up next to him, he swims them over to the side where he boxes Matt against the edge.

“Not bad, eh?” Matt flips the wet hair out of his face and grins, his chest lifting on quick huffs of breath.

“Not your worst idea,” Kris agrees. Then he leans in and lazily kisses the pool water from Matt’s neck.

“Yeah, I’ve had some bad ones.” Matt rubs the arch of his foot up and down Kris’s calf and doesn’t offer what any of those might have been. Kris wonders if he’s supposed to ask.

Since they just got off a few minutes ago, these kisses are just kisses, and between one and the next, he asks, “Why haven’t you taken pictures of me? Or us?”

Matt goes still against the wall of the pool, and Kris backs off to see him carefully searching his face. He shouldn’t have any trouble; Kris is shit at hiding things. 

“Well, it seemed like a bad idea, I guess,” he finally says with a twist of his mouth. 

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Another copout. Kris can start counting them now.

“You don’t like me enough to want to remember this?” he suggests, half teasing.

“No!” Matt huffs through his nose and shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

“You’re embarrassed, and you don’t want anyone to know what you’re doing?” Hanging out with the old French guy in his big empty house. That one seems possible.

He shakes his head again, lines creasing his brow. “No. It just seems like you wouldn’t like it if I did.” He looks away over Kris’s shoulder. “And— I haven’t wanted to really share this with anybody, anyway.”

So, not a copout, then. Flustered, Kris looks down, distracting himself with the pattern of moles interspersed in Matt’s chest hair.

Matt hesitates. “Do…you want me to?”

“Take pictures?” Kris takes a deep breath and shivers. With his shoulders out of the water, the night chill raises goosebumps on his skin. “You know I’m a little…” He can’t come up with the right English adjective in that moment, so he goes with the next best thing. “I have vanity.”

Matt smiles. “So that’s a yes.”

“That’s a yes only if we can get the fuck out of this water now.”

“Well, it can’t be now,” Matt tells him. “The pictures, I mean. It’s gotta be spontaneous. That’s the point.”

“Whatever, you’re the artist.” Not bothering with the ladder, Kris hauls himself out at the side of the pool, then turns to help Matt next. It’s not a graceful maneuver, but nobody goes tumbling back into the water, and for a moment they stand there together shivering in the chilly breeze. Kris crosses his arms over his chest and feels his balls shrinking up against his body. Just when it seems like Matt might say something, he reaches around and swats Kris on the ass.

“What the fuck?”

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long, you don’t even know.” Then Matt high-tails it for the patio entrance to the house.

And, no, Kris did not know. The time-honored locker room tradition of ass-smacking has never been one Matt’s participated in. Kris is fucking delighted.

He takes off after Matt and follows the drips on the carpet all the way upstairs to the bathroom where he finds Matt rooting through the cupboard. He comes out with two towels and tosses one to Kris, giving him a brief but glorious view of his junk after a swim and a cold sprint inside. And somehow, that unguarded shot hits him harder than staring down Matty’s spit-shiny dick after it’s been in his mouth. 

Matt catches him staring even after he has a towel wrapped around himself and offers an uncertain smile. 

_Where’s that swagger now, Murr?_

They drift out of the bathroom, at loose ends until they’re stopped outside Kris’s bedroom door. It’s Matt’s fourth night here, and Kris finally has the guts to ask, “You want to stay with me?”

Matt lets out a breath and nods. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

“No need to thank me.” He says it with a smirk, but leading the way into his room, the nerves are real. Matt looks around in curiosity, and Kris has obviously done this plenty with other people. Still, he hustles Matt to the bed and they climb in, damp towels and all. They shed those once they’re under the covers, and Kris only hesitates a moment before tugging Matt close and getting as much cold, clammy skin touching as possible. 

Matt’s shivering. “Jesus.”

“I’ll warm you up, cher.” With a grunt, he rolls Matt on top of him and rubs his hands briskly up and down his back.

Laughing, Matt wriggles his arms under Kris and burrows his face against his throat. It’s how they fall asleep.

*

It is not how they wake up.

Kris rolls over and stretches to find Matt kneeling on the bed with his phone. As soon as Kris settles on his back, Matt smiles tentatively and snaps a picture. Then he swings a knee over Kris’s middle and snaps another. The morning is so quiet, all Kris can hear is Matty breathing.

Kris takes the phone next and carefully frames the shot, just low enough to catch the lines of Matt’s hips and his happy trail. When Matt runs a hand through his hair, Kris takes the picture, the motion of his arm slightly blurry and his eyes lowered. He takes another just as Matt puts both hands flat on Kris’s stomach.

“Do you want…” Matt starts. He hesitates, then makes the vague motion of holding the camera up—oh—over them both.

“Yeah.” Kris nods and scoots to the side to make room, even though the bed is plenty big. He doesn’t try to put his arm around Matt because that seems like the kind of demonstrative gesture he wouldn’t appreciate. So it ends up just a picture of the two of them side by side, sharing a pillow. Neither of them smiles, and Kris likes that. It feels sober and artistic. Also ridiculous.

Kris has never claimed he wasn’t. 

“Will you send them to me?” he asks. 

“Mmhm,” Matt answers. He does it right then while Kris watches, and a moment later his phone buzzes on the nightstand. 

“Do you want to post any?”

Matt turns his head on the pillow to regard him. “No.” Then he plants a scratchy kiss on Kris’s jaw and rocks upright. “I need to piss.”

*

Two days later, after more rain, more swimming and sleeping and sex, Kris gives in and asks. “So. Does your mom know where you are?” In retrospect, it is a shit idea bringing this up at breakfast out. 

Matt finishes chewing his bagel and wipes his mouth. “What?”

Kris shrugs. “Does she know you’re here? With me.”

“Why?”

“Well, because you’ve been here almost a week, and I guess I would just wonder. If I was her.”

They’ve got a booth at Beauty’s, the diner buzzing with its usual mix of tourists and grumbling regulars. Matt folds his hands on the table and looks at Kris in a way that should be a warning. Kris has never been any good at heeding those.

“I guess I don’t really feel like I have to check in with my mom all that often,” he says. “Do you?”

“Check in with my mom? If she’s taking care of my dogs, yeah.”

Matt twitches back a hair. Just enough for Kris to notice. “She knows I’m visiting friends in Montreal.”

Kris gives him a skeptical look.

“Why would it matter whether she knows it’s you or not?” Matt adds, getting testy.

“Why wouldn’t you tell her?”

“I don’t know. Why do you care?”

Kris huffs a short laugh, feeling like he’s been transported back to high school. It’s not a good look. He rubs his face and says, “I don’t.” He takes a sip of his lukewarm latte and keeps his eyes lowered for a few breaths, because that was a lie.

“Do you want me to go?”

Glancing up, he sees Matt watching him intently. He shakes his head. “No. I want you to be okay.”

Matt’s brows fold together. “What does _that_ mean?”

“How should I know? I just know you aren’t.” 

“No, why’d you ask me that? I’m fine. I’m on fucking vacation.” Matt pushes his plate away and looks out at the other tables, on the verge of something ugly.

“It seems like you’re running.” 

Matt shakes his head. “Why are you doing this? What’s going on?”

“You said you were _empty._ ” Kris says it on a burst of breath—worry and fear and fierce, possessive affection spilling out, lifting the weight that’s been pressing on him since May.

Matt snorts an unpleasant laugh. “Fucking hell.”

“That messed with me. I—”

“That messed with _you_?”

“I was supposed to be better this year. I was supposed to look out for you.”

Matt fixes a disbelieving look on him. “Oh my god, what? Since when?”

Kris almost answers but biting it back at the last moment amounts to the same thing.

Matt’s mouth drops open. “Did he say something to you? Did he put you up to this?”

Kris blinks in momentary confusion, but there’s only one _he_ Matt could be talking about. He’s got it wrong, but Kris thinks if he says _Flower_ out loud right now, the whole building will detonate.

“Was this all out of pity?” Matt asks.

“No, Matty, come on.”

“Bullshit. I’m not some kid. I don’t need your pity or coddling or whatever the fuck.”

“You think I don’t know that? But you went through hell this year. And this is…” He gestures between them and around the diner, unsure what he’s even trying to capture.

“This is what?”

There’s that warning again, and this time, Kris heeds it, if for no other reason than he’s not sure how he would have finished that thought, anyway. “I don’t know. This can’t be helping.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Matt says, rising from the booth. He takes out his wallet. 

Kris’s heart sinks. “Matt…”

“You’re right; this didn’t help.” He throws a twenty down on the table and doesn’t even look at Kris before slamming out of the restaurant.

Unsure whether to let him have his dramatic exit or to chase after him, Kris sits frozen in his seat, pulse thumping in his ears.

Which is stupid, because what is he going to do—let Matt pay for an Uber to his house? Stay away until he packs up his overnight bag and drives away? Kris might not be the most mature guy on the team. Hell, he might not even be the more mature of the two of them nine days out of ten, but in this moment, he can be. Leaving more cash on the table for their food, he shoves out of the booth.

Just as Matt slams back through the door, the crowd waiting for tables clearing a path for him—and staring.

“I’m not taking a fucking Uber back to your house.” Matt is as flustered as Kris has ever seen him, red-faced and a little wild around the eyes. It is deeply reassuring. This is where Kris lives half the time. 

“No, you’re not. Come on.”

Matt turns around before Kris can do something stupid like put a hand on his back and heads out the door again. Glaring at a few patrons until they quit staring, Kris hustles after him. 

*

In the car, Matt turns away from him and looks out the window. It’s not a long drive back to Kris’s house, but it feels like crossing the entire state of Pennsylvania. Kris finally breaks the silence a few blocks out, afraid that if he doesn’t, Matt will bolt as soon as the car is in park, and that will be that.

“Sorry I brought that up the way I did. I was stupid. I should have just asked how long you wanted to stay. That’s all I wanted to know.”

He glances over to see Matt give a brittle shrug. “You were right to wonder. I was a shitty guest.”

“No. I’m—I was having fun. It seemed like you were too.” But he just had to go and poke it because he was trying to be the adult, or something. As if Matt couldn’t look after himself.

Though he’d obviously come to Kris for _something_. He’d come, and he’d stayed. Kris had thought it was to screw around. Maybe Matt had, too, at the start. Kris isn’t so sure now.

“Yeah. I was, too. Sorry if I overstayed my welcome.”

“You didn’t.” Kris shakes his head for emphasis and really hopes Matt believes him. “I was just worried. I thought maybe your mom would worry too. I’m sure she wants to see you this summer. After everything.”

Matt huffs an ugly sound, but Kris is pulling into his driveway and can’t spare him a glance until he stops the car. “I can’t deal with that right now,” Matt says. 

“With your mom?”

He nods stiffly and keeps his eyes firmly on the inside of the garage. They sit in silence for several moments, even after Kris turns off the car. The fact that Matt doesn’t move to open the door keeps Kris’s butt in his own seat. His curiosity wars with the obvious need for patience. 

“It’s like…” Matt digs a hand back through his hair. He hesitates, the words filling up the space between them, ready to burst out. “I don’t think she even misses him,” he says finally. “And I can’t be there for that.”

Kris blinks in surprise. “Oh. I’m…” He’s, what? Sure she does miss him? Sure Matt has it wrong? How the fuck would he know that? He’s spoken to the woman maybe twice. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.

“I mean. They’d been divorced for more than a decade, and they fucking hated each other’s guts before that, but…” He shakes his head. “But when I go back, he won’t be there, and she won’t…she won’t even want to talk about him.”

He’s got one arm braced against the window, and he presses the heel of his palm roughly against his eye. He sniffs quietly. 

Kris’s chest hurts just looking at him. But at least he knows what to say now. “You’re their kid. I bet if you ask her, she’ll talk about him with you. I bet she would be glad to.”

Matt shakes his head. “I don’t know. You weren’t there for the service. It was like—” He shakes his head again and shoves open the car door, unfolding from the low front seat. But when he shuts the door behind him, he leans back against it and stays put. 

Kris follows him out and hovers by the hood, not wanting to crowd him. He clears his throat. “Uh. In my experience, funerals are weird. They’re like a job to get through. It’s after that the loss really hits.”

“Yeah.” Matt nods sharply. He sniffs again and rubs the back of his hand under his nose. “It’s hitting.” He shoots Kris a quick look, and fuck. Kris has been here. He knows what to do here. Matt must see it in his face because he shifts sideways along the passenger door, narrowly avoids smacking his hip on the mirror, and lets Kris pull him into a hug.

It’s a little weird trying to comfort somebody taller than him, but Matty does an impressive shrinking act and manages to duck his head all the way down to Kris’s chest. He breathes noisily there for a few moments, his back rising and falling in a jagged rhythm under Kris’s hands. 

“Even if your parents weren’t good together, they made you,” Kris says quietly. “Your mom wants to help you through this. I know that. You’re not alone out there.”

Matt nods against his chest. “I know. Just doesn’t feel like it right now. It feels like shit.” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, and Kris’s throat tightens in answer. Still hiding his face, Matt takes slower, deeper breaths, obviously trying to get his shit in order. Finally, he lifts his head and goes in for the full hug, his sharp chin digging into Kris’s shoulder. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“Nah.” Kris rubs his hand up and down Matt’s spine. “Just a little messy. I kinda like it.” Hearing what he just said out loud, Kris rolls his eyes at himself. “Not this part,” he amends. “This part sucks.”

“I know what part you meant,” Matt tells him, a smile in there somewhere. “And thanks. I, um. I like that about you, too.”

Kris smiles, warmth blooming in his chest, and presses a rough kiss to Matt’s jaw. 

*

They spend the rest of the day around the house—working out in Kris’s weight room, eating lunch on his deck, and napping together in the afternoon. And as awesome as it would be to have Game 5 of the Final ahead of them, this time to rest and recuperate feels more necessary with each day they have it. He wouldn’t trade places with Flower now. 

Not when, waking up from their nap, he has Matt sleepy and warm beside him, grinding against his thigh and mouthing at his throat.

Kris hasn’t gotten laid this much since… well, since the Cup win two years ago, after Flower cornered him in a club the team had rented out. Sloppy kisses and groping and regretful apologies the next morning weren’t the best thing for his longtime crush, so he’d gone on one hell of a bender after—ostensibly in the name of celebration, but mostly to get the taste of Marc out of his mouth. And out of his head.

Didn’t worked, of course. Nothing did until their upstart goaltender started posting uncomfortably personal photos of himself with his dogs. 

Kris rolls Matt under him and closes him in with his elbows braced on either side of his head. The late afternoon light changes in the small space they’ve made, and Matt leans up for a kiss.

“Wanna fuck me?” he asks. 

Kris nods, the heaviness of sleep in his limbs shifting down to his gut. “Yeah.”

The world seems to fall silent outside the bedroom window, pared down to breath and skin on skin as, this time, Kris opens Matt up with the help of murmured instructions. When they’re both ready, he gloves up, angles Matt’s hips into his lap, and sinks inside. Matt shuts his eyes and moans, reaching up inside the box of Kris’s arms to touch his face. 

Kris shuts his eyes, too, as Matt brushes his thumbs over his brows and eyelids. 

It feels better than anything he can remember. 

After, they doze until the light changes to evening and somebody’s stomach grumbles. Matt taps a strange pattern on Kris’s breastbone with his long, bony fingers and the sound thuds hollowly in his chest. He only stops when Kris covers his hand and squeezes. 

“Are you hungry?”

Matt nods but doesn’t move to get up. He regards Kris with sober eyes turned a darker blue in the strange light. “What?” Kris finally asks.

“Do you mind if I take your picture again?”

“Sure,” he answers, pleased and flattered that it’s Matt who asks this time instead of Kris maybe pushing him into it. 

“Cool.” Twisting around in bed, Matt snatches his phone off the nightstand and rolls back over so they’re lying face to face. When Kris turns to face him better, their knees touch. Matt snaps the picture before Kris is ready, the closeness of it startling him. Matt grins and takes another, and another after that. 

*

Kris wakes up late because they went to bed late. After sleeping half the afternoon away, they’d stayed up watching Kris’s favorite French Canadian cop movies, Matt beside him on the couch, brows drawn together in concentration. 

Kris feels a twinge of regret that he has yet to talk at length with Matt in French to see just how good he is. That twinge becomes a sharp tug in his ribs when he stretches and finds the bed empty. Listening carefully, he doesn’t hear anyone in the bathroom or moving around downstairs. The space beside him where Matt had been is cold.

With an uneasy feeling in his stomach, he slips out of bed and heads downstairs. A quick glance through his front windows reveals Matt’s car still in the driveway, and he blows out a breath, relieved. He must be down in the weight room already. 

But on his way to the basement, a note on his counter catches his eye, and he pauses, snatching it up. The handwriting is small and cramped, and it fills the whole page.

_Hey. You were right. I had to go home. I need to hang out with Mom and take my dogs off her hands. She’s probably about ready to kill them—or me. ~~Thanks for hosting me~~ Thanks for letting me crash your life for a week. And letting me do laundry because I didn’t bring enough clothes. And for everything else._

_Sorry I didn’t say goodbye before I left this morning. I didn’t know how I should. The truth is you’re kind of like him. Like Marc. This guy who’s larger than life and older and hotter. I have this feeling like I have so much to prove to you. I want to impress you so bad. Or at least be cool. Saying goodbye to you this morning would not have been cool._

_You’re probably wondering why the fuck my car is still in your driveway. I called an Uber. By the time you read this, I should be in the air. I couldn’t face that drive back alone. And I didn’t have the balls to ask you to come with me. Not right then._

_But. You should come to Thunder Bay. You should drive my car and take the route along the lake—it’s only an hour longer and so worth it. Come crash my life for a week (at least.)_

_Anyway, sorry and thank you again. You probably saved my whole fucking summer._

_Yours,  
Matt_

_Also. Check your phone. I sent you some highlights from yesterday. I didn’t share any online, obviously. I haven’t this whole time because I wanted to feel like this was just for you and me. ~~Special.~~ Whatever. _

Kris flips the page over, but it’s only a piece of junk mail he hadn’t thrown away yet. There’s no more letter hiding anywhere, so he reads it again. No one writes letters anymore, but here one is. For him.

_Yours,  
Matt_

He folds the letter and carries it to the window to get another look at Matt’s car.

He shakes his head. “What an asshole.”

Wandering outside in nothing but his underwear, he peeks in the windows to see the keys on the seat. Of all the presumptuous things to do—leave a fucking car and an invitation to make a twenty-hour drive alone. It’s a ballsy fucking gamble, and Kris should be pissed. He’s pretty sure he should. 

He’s not.

He has to give Matt credit—the kid goes for what he wants.

Opening the driver’s side door, Kris climbs in to the immediate and overwhelming stink of wet dog. “Gross.” He shoves the keys in the ignition and turns a couple clicks so he can roll down the windows. The first thing he is doing before attempting any kind of road trip is taking this thing to the carwash and vacuuming the shit out of it. Maybe there’s someone he can pay to shampoo it.

Before even that, however, he goes back inside and upstairs in search of his phone. Finding it on the floor just under the side of the bed, he thumbs open the pictures Matt sent at, Jesus, four in the morning. Scrolling through them, he can’t help smiling. Matt must have stayed up after Kris finally passed out editing these. He’d been sure when they were taken that they couldn’t be as artistic as Matt’s usual Instagram faire—mostly too-close body parts and blurry laughter.

But Matt has the touch. Kris is impressed.

Out of habit, he checks Instagram after, and his pulse kicks at what he sees at the top of his feed. It’s the view from an airplane window, Montreal-Trudeau and the city beyond spreading to the river, with the caption: “à bientôt, Montreal”.

Before he can think too hard about it, he opens Google Maps and his calendar.


End file.
